


The Days We Lost

by iridium_writes



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Dark Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-01 07:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridium_writes/pseuds/iridium_writes
Summary: Life: Virgil doesn't need it. He's sold off more days of his life than he can keep track of. He's realized that in Sandersia, you can get a lot of good things for just a few days, if you can find the right people. But when Virgil's father Emile falls victim to a nasty plague, Virgil must travel outside of the only kingdom he has ever known in order to find the cure.And he is not allowed to go alone.Life: Prince Roman of Sandersia feels he hasn't gotten enough of it. He longs for adventure and to find his soulmate, but his father, King Thomas, insists on keeping Roman and his twin brother Remus safely within the castle walls as much as he can. But when an unassuming peasant shows up to the castle for permission to leave the kingdom, Roman jumps on the chance to leave his royal life and discover what's beyond his father's reign.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Dr. Emile Picani/Sleep | Remy Sanders, Joan Stokes & Talyn, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. Virgil

In the kingdom of Sandersia, a person could get anything they desired, as long as they knew the right people. It was a read-between-the-lines sort of game, in which every apothecary owner was assumed to be a witch, bookstores housed forbidden texts from the Cursed Ages, and payment was in grotesque tithes. The Sandersians who were aware of this kept quiet, for it was a dangerous sort of market to associate oneself with. 

Virgil Picani could say with confidence that he hadn't spent a single stokesmark in the past 24 months. He knew where to get the three things he needed— Crofters jam, spiders' eyes, and opioids— and he knew the prices. His fathers, Remy and Emile, took care of housekeeping and sustenance with the former's meager paycheck as a bartender and the latter's struggling therapy schtick. "One day, it will all come together," they would always tell Virgil. "Daddy's going to have his own pub, and Papa's business will take off!" They'd said that for ten years now. 

Virgil had decided a while ago that he would rather spend his dreams, his blood, or the days for his life than ask for stokesmarks from his parents. The look on their faces when Virgil used to ask if he could purchase a new set of tarot cards or a roll of parchment, the way that Remy would get on his knees and pick through his satchel for stokesmarks, the way Emile would pawn his favorite possessions; it was all too depressing for Virgil to handle. Two men so kind did not deserve this, especially when the boy they called a son was actually the bastard child of Emile's sister.

He also was falling victim to a deep suspicion that his fathers were hiding something from him.

It had started about a few week prior, when Virgil had come home from the marketplace and found Remy had not left for his shift at the bar yet. Virgil had waited for an explanation, but never received one despite the numerous hints he dropped of curiosity. And then Emile had started wearing clothes he always reserved for winter time and never wanted to leave the house. In fact, Virgil hardly even saw his papa these past few days, and Remy always found a way to avoid the subject.

So the anxiety kicked in. That awful sinking of the stomach that had Virgil wrapped up in his corduroy quilt as he convinced himself that Emile didn't love Remy anymore and Papa was leaving.

"But why wouldn't they tell me?" Virgil sniffled, groping through his bedside table drawer for the opioid capsules he'd come to rely on in times like these. "What else have they hidden from me?"

His fingers grasped the silk bag containing the capsules and he drew it towards him, fingers prying at the drawstring opening. He'd promised himself he wouldn't use these again, but this time was different. This time, he _needed them so, so bad._

"This will be the last time," Virgil whispered, sliding a callused pointer finger and thumb into the bag. His other hand groped for his mother's silver goblet, engraved with her initials, though they'd been worn down with time. Such a sinful practice in her name.

Pills on tongue, Virgil took in a gulp of water, washing away the capsules and, soon, the world. He placed the goblet back on the bedside, and eased himself into his straw-stuffed mattress. The anxiety was still boiling in his veins and heart, but Virgil knew it wouldn't be long before the feeling winked out of existence and set him free.

•••

A new band of con artists had arrived in Sandersia, setting up headquarters in the Tomathy marketplace. As always, there were those who believed the lies they sold, and there were those who knew where to get the truth, for an arguably higher price. This caravan was boasting healing crystals, which looked suspiciously like painted rocks, narcotics made from fairy dust, and a soothsayer of romance.

Virgil was a die-hard cynic, especially when it came to sketchy vagabonds showing up with deals that didn't involve selling one's soul. All the traveling merchant groups were the same, and it only took a phony seer and a dirt-and-water "potion" to convince Virgil of that. "Call me a doubting Thomas, but don't call me a fool," he would always say, to which those not familiar with the Bible would question what their king, also named Thomas, had been so doubtful of.

"She can tell you of your soulmate!" the chiselers crooned across the marketplace. Virgil, scrunching his nose as if their words were a nasty stench, pushed past them, making sure to avoid eye contact. He'd worn his darkest tunic and trousers, the ones that didn't scream poverty but wouldn't let someone mistake him for a lord either, in hopes of not looking too desperate or lavish. It was those two extremes that got the prices increased.

"Perhaps I could interest you in some red jasper, for stability and strength?" another hissed in Virgil's ear. He shrugged the swindler off and increased the pace of his already-rapid footsteps and made for the library. Solicitors weren't permitted in there, and besides, Virgil was invested in a series of grimoire-esque collections from the legendary Quil Cauchon.

An uncomfortable breath of frigid air brushed Virgil's hair as he stepped inside the library. It was relatively quiet for a typical evening, which set Virgil's social anxiety off pumping its fists in victory. The librarian, Chandler, perched in their cherry wood stool, nodded to Virgil as he passed the front desk.

Virgil found the fifth volume of the Cauchon Chronicles on a dust-covered shelf near the back of the establishment. The series was present in full near the front, but Virgil much preferred the handwritten originals with their covers hanging on by a few stitches and the pages crisp from age. It sometimes reminded him of himself, broken on the outside but still functional.

He eased into his favorite armchair, throwing his legs over the right armrest and arching his back against the left. Everyone had learned to stop questioning his strange sitting habits once they realized there was no teaching Virgil to sit up normally.

Virgil peeled open the book to the first page.

_What if you asked the soothsayer about Papa and Daddy?_

"Wha- No, that's ridiculous," Virgil muttered to himself. He was a fool for even letting the thought into his consciousness. He turned his focus back to the text.

_"I wanted to focus on health in the form of natural remedies, some of which require no magic and can be created in the home. I have procured a collection of my most successful herbal---"_

"_herbal---"_

_"herbal---"_

The letters started to fade into oblivion as Virgil slipped back into the indulgences of a numbskull. _She might know something. It won't even cost that much. You should just try it. What if you _don't _do it, and she could have helped?_

"Read. Your. Damn. Book," Virgil hissed at himself, nails digging into the parchment pages in frustration. He focused his vision on "_herbal" _as if his line of sight was a pair of stiletto blades.

Not even thirty seconds later, Virgil found himself snapping the book shut, sliding it back onto the shelf with its predecessors, and stalking towards the exit. He wasn't going to let his fantasies of what a fortune-telling hag could tell him throw a wrench in his productivity any longer. Yes, he'd shatter the streak of saving stokesmarks, ruining the only virtue he had just like he always did, for his vices were just too seductive.

Her tent was arguably of better quality than most of the seers that came to town, given its lack of mite infestation or manure stains on the fabric. The deep sapphire textiles that made up the structure shimmered in the light with specks of glitter. Virgil had to admit that, for a fraud, this seer was putting in a lot more effort than he expected. There was even a faint scent of pumpkins and candle wax drifting through the open curtains, Virgil noticed, as he stood in line behind other patrons, one of which he recognized as the fletcher's son Terrence.

It took about fifteen minutes for Virgil to reach the front of the line and be beckoned inside by a voice that sounded like a mischievous ocean wave. His insides were churning from both the onset of claustrophobia and the unease of meeting someone new.

But there she was, cloaked in gauzy tulle and a long satin dress, the lids of her eyes adorned with a fine fuchsia powder, a stark contrast to her long locks of brown hair.

"I am Adri," the seer said. "You may use any pronouns to refer to me, for I am sure you will speak of me to your friends."

"Quite bold of you to assume I have friends," Virgil remarked, taking a seat across from Adri.

The seer smiled. "Everyone has friends; whether or not they take the form of shadows, to that I cannot attest."

Virgil gripped the edge of the table with his shaking hands. _She shouldn't know that._

"How much for a foretelling?"

Adri slid a slip of parchment towards Virgil with two cobweb-covered fingers.

_"Pricing:_  
_Romance reading- 50 stokesmarks_  
_Lifespan reading- 100 stokesmarks_  
_Horoscope- 100 stokesmarks _  
_Soulmate search- 1000 stokesmarks_  
_Other subjects may be negotiated"_

Virgil's mind started reeling at the prices. How many people had fallen for this fraud that Adri thought to inflate her prices this much? Or perhaps she was not a fraud? No.

"I have a query about my fathers," Virgil said, reaching a trembling hand into the coin pouch at his waist. The emergency coins. Because this was an emergency.

"Romance then; my specialty," Adri smiled, taking back the parchment. "Fifty stokesmarks."

He tossed the onyx coinage into a tin labeled "payments."

"Here's the thing," Virgil said. "My fathers, they've been becoming more distant lately. From me, at least. Why? What's going on with them? Do they still love each other?"

"More than ever before," Adri hummed. Then she raised an eyebrow. "Have you read Shakespeare's sonnet 73?"

_What the hell?_

"I... uh, can't say I'm familiar with it," Virgil said. "A sin, I'm sure, in the eyes of our crown prince, but I find sonnets to be boring."

"Let me recite the couplet for you." Adri let her eyes flutter shut. Virgil noticed that her eyes were shifting beneath their lids, as if the text was projected upon the underside of Adri's skin.

"This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong; to love that well which thou must leave ere long."

Virgil blinked. "My sincerest apologies, Madame Adri, but I must have missed something. What the hell does that all mean?"

Adri laughed, a mocking little thing, that, quite frankly, Virgil deserved.

"I didn't take you to be so dense, but perhaps it is your fear that makes you ignorant," Adri said. "The gist of the couplet is that love grows stronger as death grows near."

Virgil felt a gob of saliva gathering at the back of his throat. "Who... who said anything about someone dying?!"

Adri fished out a pocket-watch from the folds of her dress, near the hips.

"Oh, would you look at that?" she said, a saccharine pout forming on her lips. "I'm afraid our time is up! I've got quite a line out there; wouldn't want to leave your esteemed Prince Roman waiting any longer, would you?"

"But you didn't give me my answer- wait, did you say Prince Roman?" Virgil turned around and peered through the fluttering door flaps. _What was the prince doing in the Tomathy marketplace? _

Yet there he was, all glorious six feet of him, shoulders thrown back as he gazed towards the horizon and let the golden light hit his face at just the right angle. It was the closest Virgil had ever been to any member of the royal family, and the prince was just as stunning as everyone claimed him to be.

Virgil felt his face lighting itself on fire, his anxieties blaring their alarms and screaming about what a fool Virgil must look like to the prince, spending half of his fathers' paycheck on fortune tellers. Pathetic.

He didn't bother to look back at Adri as he snatched up his satchel of coins and ducked out from inside the tent. _Get out of here, Virgil, before you make yourself look like even more of a halfwit! Start running!!!_

Ever the slave to the voice in his head, Virgil took off running, boots slamming against the cobblestone street. He slid down the abandoned alleyway, the one that smelled of rotten eggs but made for a convenient short-cut to his fathers' domicile, and slowed his pace. His heart felt like it was on the verge of tachycardia, and he certainly didn't want to be the "death" that the seer had foretold.

Virgil eased his way back home, making a point to engage in the breathing exercises that Emile had advised him to do. They never seemed to work during an anxiety attack, but Papa always told him to keep trying. "Giving up on small chances is giving power to the illness," he'd say, when Virgil was convinced he was never getting better. "As long as you keep fighting, you'll know it hasn't fully consumed you."

Upon approaching the doorstep, Virgil ran a quick hand through his hair and a wrist across his forehead to catch the deluge of sweat that had gathered there before opening the door. 

_Something is wrong._

"Daddy?"

It was obvious that Remy had been crying, and not just the little tears that bubble at one's eyelids for a few minutes. No, his face had been etched into canals by the salty drops, and the whites of his eyes looked as if they'd been scratched by miniature cat claws. Virgil had never seen his daddy cry before. He'd never seen him so... broken.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

His father turned to him with the blankest of stares. Virgil took a tentative step forward. Nothing. Another step. Another. And another.

Virgil placed a hand on Remy's wrist. "Daddy, talk to me. Where's Papa? He can help you."

"No. He can't."

"Yes he can, you know he can," Virgil insisted. "You love him, and he loves you so much. He can help. Let's go find him, okay?" He tightened his grip on his father's wrist and started to lead Remy to the master bedroom.

"Virgil, no-"

"What are you so afraid of?!" Virgil said, throwing open the bedroom door in frustration. "He's your husb--"

His eyes widened as he took in the grotesque form occupying his fathers' bed. The lips that used to sing Virgil to sleep as an infant were swollen and purple, and oozing black pustules dappled the face and neck. His eyes leaked a yellow liquid from the tear ducts.

"Get. Away. Virgil." His papa's voice was commingled with a thick mucus and a terrifying rasp.

"PAPA!!!" Virgil made to break into a sprint for Emile, but Remy's hand clamped down on Virgil's arm before he could make it very far.

"Virgil, don't; he's contagious," Remy warned.

"LET ME GO, I WANT MY PAPA!" Virgil was in hysterics now, reaching a violently-shaking arm towards Emile. But Remy's grip held tight.

"Don't you understand? You can't!" Remy shouted. "He's going to die, and I'm not going to let you die too!"

_"Love grows stronger as death grows near." _Now Virgil understood. It was never a lack of love, but the denial of loss. This sickness, this _plague, _had kept his papa behind closed doors, and now it was going in for the kill. 

"PAPA, NO! YOU CAN"T LEAVE US! N-not without one last hug goodbye..."

Remy wrapped his shaking son into a fierce embrace, his white tunic scooping up each of Virgil's teardrops.

"I... I love you," Emile murmured as he slipped into a state of unconsciousness. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life: Virgil doesn't need it. He's sold off more days of his life than he can keep track of. He's realized that in Sandersia, you can get a lot of good things for just a few days, if you can find the right people. But when Virgil's father Emile falls victim to a nasty plague, Virgil must travel outside of the only kingdom he has ever known in order to find the cure.  
And he is not allowed to go alone.
> 
> Life: Prince Roman of Sandersia feels he hasn't gotten enough of it. He longs for adventure and to find his soulmate, but his father, King Thomas, insists on keeping Roman and his twin brother Remus safely within the castle walls as much as he can. But when an unassuming peasant shows up to the castle for permission to leave the kingdom, Roman jumps on the chance to leave his royal life and discover what's beyond his father's reign.

Roman did not like to lie to his father, but for certain pursuits, it was necessary; in particular, the pursuit of love was one of his most prolific fib-fabricators.

"You're a prince, kiddo," King Thomas would say, putting an arm around Roman's shoulders. "I don't want you to have to worry about finding someone to marry quite yet."

"It does not worry me!" Roman would always argue back. "I just crave physical contact with someone beautiful. What is so concerning about that?"

To which his father would begin his neurotic rant about someone taking advantage of Roman's royal status, or his foreign heritage, or create blackmail about his brother's simmering powers that had almost gotten a few servants killed. So Roman learned to lie. In his experience, his father seemed to prefer hearing that Roman was going to a bar rather than a brothel.

When Roman had heard that a seer had come to town who could tell him of his soulmate, he began crafting a lie so fine that it would slide right under the king's nose.

•••

Roman grasped the brass knocker to his father's chambers in his right hand, so tight that the green veins popped out from his skin like admirers. He could hear the king singing one of his original operatic ballads from within, the one that foreign diplomats begged to hear each time they visited.

_You should let him finish the song._

_Roman, you know that's just you trying to stall._

He let the brass ring go, and it swung towards the plate. Upon contact, it reverberated a long, sonorous note that ricocheted through the corridor. The king's voice cut short.

"Who dares disturb my slumber?!" King Thomas roared, followed by a brigade of laughter.

"Dad, you were clearly not slumbering," Roman grinned as his father opened the door. "People don't sing in their sleep."

Thomas smiled at his son. "You're a walking disproof of that statement."

"What?! No! I do not do that," Roman said, color tinting his cheeks.

Thomas reached out a cloaked arm and ruffled Roman's hair. "Love you, kiddo."

He could feel the guilt began to penetrate, the prince's heart sinking in shame from the falsehoods he was to bestow upon the man who saw him as nothing but a glorious light in his life. It was necessary, a notion which Roman had assured himself of many a time, but heartbreaking.

"So I was going to ask for your permission make a trip down to the Tomathy marketplace," Roman said, not meeting his father's eyes.

The king ruffled through the pockets of his slacks. "I've actually got somethin' for you to do today," Thomas murmured. "If I could just find..."

"Oh. Oh! That is quite alright," Roman said, jamming his pointer fingers through his belt loops in a futile attempt to act casual. "No problem at all."

"A-ha! Here it is," Thomas said, producing a mangled piece of parchment. "My to-do list."

Roman stared at the paper. "Esteemed Scholar Valerie Torres-Rosario is going to have an aneurysm if she sees that."

The king winked. "Let's hope she doesn't see it, then." He began to unfold the list, revealing a sprawl of beautiful handwriting that was reminiscent of a printed typeface. It was the kind of handwriting that made you actually want to complete the task that it assigned.

"Her son Logan actually wrote this out for me," Thomas continued. "He's been taking on some of her duties lately, 'cause she's preparing to pass the position onto him in later years if he proves to be successful."

Roman's ears perked up. "She has a son?"

"Yep, and he's as brilliant as his mother," Thomas said, face shining with pride. "Gods, I'm just so grateful to have such a talented staff."

Roman nodded quickly, hoping to cut the king off before he began to wax poetic about his courtiers for the next five hours. "Yes, they're great. So, um, that thing you wanted me to do?"

"Right," Thomas said, squinting at the list. "Oh, yeah. I wanted to speak with you about answering the queries of our citizens, in hopes of having you sit in while I answer some of them tomorrow. I thought it would be good to, you know, get you used to some of the duties of the king."

"Will Remus be there?"

Thomas shook his head. "I felt that he might be a bit, well, _improper _to the citizens; you know how he is..."

"So you've just given up on him?" Roman asked, incredulous. _Quite a bold statement to make about one's son to their sibling!_

"No! Oh, goodness no, never!" Thomas said, waving his hands in a flurry of embarrassment. "I would never give up on him! He's just been a bit... uh, unstable lately and I... I thought it might be a good idea to help him first, before sending him to help others."

Roman bit his lip. _It sure sounds like you've already decided that I'm to be your successor._

"That's understandable, I guess" Roman said. "So would I be able to go to the marketplace before we speak on that subject?"

"Whatever for? If you need something, I can always send an attendant to purchase it." The king began to fold up his list once again.

"I... I wanted to get something for Remus," Roman said, fingernails scratching at the loose threads on his pants like they always did when he was nervous. "Just a small thing, to cheer him up. He's been... kinda sad lately."

Which was true. Roman's twin had spent the past week inside his quarters, only showing his face during mealtimes. Roman had tried to speak to his brother, but Remus just gave short answers accompanied by the most dejected tone of voice he had ever heard from Remus' lips. The prince was usually drowning in ecstasy just from being alive, but Roman was suspicious that his brother's powers, or the fear of them, were starting to take a drastic toll on their host.

But being the selfish bastard that Roman knew he was, he'd decided to pull on the heartstrings a bit to get a gift for himself. Remus, too; but it wasn't as pressing.

The king seemed to buy into Roman's cause exactly how he'd expected. "That is so kind of you, Roman," Thomas gushed. "Of course you can go get something for Remus. I'm sure he will be so grateful that you thought to do that for him!"

Roman flashed his father a quick smile. "Thanks, Dad," he said. "And it won't take long, maybe an hour? I promise, I will be back in time for us to talk about the queries."

"Perfect," Thomas said. "Look, I've got a meeting with the foreign dignitaries in a few moments, and I need to finish grooming this absolute monster of hair-" The king gestured towards his bedhead. "-before I go. So I'll see you later, okay kiddo?"

"Sounds good. Best of luck in your meeting, Dad," Roman said, as Thomas slipped back inside of his room calling out a "thanks!"

•••

It didn't take long for the subjects of Sandersia to notice that there was a prince walking among them. Yes, Roman had dressed down for the occasion, and denied having any need for guards, but he realized it was truly foolish for him to have believed that he would go unnoticed. From the moment a merchant woman had noticed his signature cocked left hip and flamboyant saunter, it was game over.

So he waved to the locals like a good monarch's son, and made his way to the fortune teller, hoping this wouldn't get back to his father.

He would be lying if he said he didn't believe in soothsayers, especially the romance ones. Remus always made fun of him for being such a hopeless romantic, reading into every symbol and harbinger for glimpses of his future relationships. But Roman knew he would never stop trying, especially when someone like this seer walked into town claiming the ability to identify one's soulmate.

It would certainly make things easier if Roman only had to pursue one person to find true love.

It also seemed like the Sandersians believed in seer's lore, because there was a preponderance of chatter about what the seer had told people, snippets of what seemed to be initials and sun signs and meeting locations. Roman was surprised to find himself to be the only one in line to see the fortune teller, save for the fellow who was inside the tent with her. Perhaps everyone else had already gotten their readings.

In only a few moments, the previous customer's seat was vacated. Roman watched as a scrawny young man, clothed in all black, let his gaze flicker to the prince for just a few seconds before scampering away. Maybe the seer was not only a bringer of good news, but of heartbreak as well?

"Enter, Prince."

Roman's eyebrows shot up at the seer's authoritative voice. _As someone who is regarded as a member of one of the least respected professions in the world, should she really be speaking to a prince like that?_ Even his own father, the _king,_ spoke in gentler words.

He peeled back the drapes at the tent's entrance and stepped inside. A woman sat at an ornate wooden table, legs propped up on the edge of it like a drunkard. Her vibrant eye powder shimmered mischievously in the dim-lit room.

"Good afternoon, Prince Roman," the seer drawled. "Have a seat; you must be absolutely _languid_ from your trek through the plebeian sector."

Roman eyed the seer for another moment before he sat. "They're not plebeians," he said, folding his hands and placing them on the table. "They're my people, my hard-working people, and I have much more respect for them than to call them such a derogatory term."

"Perhaps," the seer said, propping her right elbow on the table and resting her face on her hand. "So tell me, what do you seek?"

"Shouldn't you know?" Roman asked, a smirk playing at his lips. "You're the one with magic."

The seer laughed. "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Princey. And besides, I have my predictions as to what you want to know. I simply wish to know if _you _are sure of what you want."

"I _do_ know what I want," Roman said. "I want to know about my soulmate. And I'm sure of it."

The seer tapped a fingernail on her payments jar. "Two-thousand stokesmarks, please."

Roman had to restrain himself from screeching out in protest. "Did you say two-thousand?"

"Yes, the price is straight from my listings," the seer said, handing Roman a piece of parchment. It did indeed say, "_S__oulmate search- 2000 stokesmarks." What a money-grubber!_

"Fine," Roman sighed, pulling out the coins from his leather pouch and placing them in the jar. "But this better be a pretty damn in-depth soulmate search."

"Trust me," the seer smiled. "You'll get what you paid for."

•••

If you asked Roman, he did not get what he paid for.

The highlights of the search were, as Roman transcribed, the following:

_~ Lives in Sandersia_

_~ Does not have magic_

_~ Sagittarius_

_~ I will fall in love first_

_~ I already kinda know who this person is_

_~ I will make an incredible sacrifice on their behalf_

What frustrated Roman the most, he realized as he scoured the trinket shops for his brother's gift, was that the seer took extreme care to not reveal the gender of his soulmate. He was pissed at himself for spending so much money for something that could very well be phony, and not even enjoying the process. No, this seer, who had never once revealed her name, was just about as snarky as someone could get. At least, to _him_ she was. She was much kinder to the person who came in after Roman.

It seemed that she thought him to be a bad person based on his royal status.

Roman's eyes caught on a wooden unit containing a variety of vibrant tubes of gouache near the back of the store. He ambled over to the display.

"Remus likes to draw," he mused. "Wonder if he'd like to give these a shot?"

Roman had seen some of his brother's illustrations, and they were gorgeous. And chaotic. Remus had some sort of a penchant for portraying the grotesque, and whether it be the carnage of wars long past or the severed head of a tyrant, the drawings were breath-taking.

He decided to purchase the gouache. "At least money can buy happiness for someone today," he mumbled to himself.


End file.
